Nathan Stinkeye P.I.

case of the backward mule

The room was dark and tight and rank like a proctologist’s nightmare. Or fantasy, if that’s someone’s thing, who’m I to judge? I’m just a guy with problems like any other guy, you know, with bills to pay and the elephantitis and no air-conditioning. The squeaker on the other end of the phone had whined something to effect that murder was on the menu and that dinner had been served. Well, I wasn’t hungry but I figured I still had room enough for a slice of sleuth cake. So, I found myself jerking my way into a low-rent men’s cuddle and cream motel in a part of town so undesirable that even dirtbags considered it an urban rash. Standing there, staring at what amounted to a corpse buffet, trying to hold down three quarts of fortified wine, two chickens and four waffles, I asked myself why I kept going. The answer was simple. Crime stank. And I was the pine tree hanging from the mirror that was society. Time to freshen the air.

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